


Star Trek: Shield 1x02 "It Begins"

by raiining



Series: Star Trek: SHIELD [2]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Stargate Atlantis, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Gen, M/M, always a girl!Harry Dresden, medically inaccurate schizophrenia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 05:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5992537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still reeling from the events that occurred aboard Starbase G-6, the <i>U.S.S. Shield</i> and her remaining crew attempt to move on from the tragedy, while the investigation into <i>who</i> and <i>why</i> continues.</p>
<p>To give them space to grieve and to practice being a crew again, Admiral Fury assigns the <i>Shield</i> to a humanitarian mission on Balor III, where the capital city has been damaged by an earthquake.</p>
<p>What Fury doesn’t know, however, is that this is no milk-run mission.  Balor III is in the middle of a civil war, and the crew of the <i>U.S.S. Shield</i> is about to become embroiled in the conflict…</p>
<p>(The second thrilling episode of this multifandom Clint/Coulson-centric Star Trek AU!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my utterly fabulous beta team of orderlychaos, ralkana, and desert_neon. You ladies are amazing, and you each bring such fabulous strengths to the table. Thank you for how much better you make me!
> 
>  
> 
> Note: eventual Clint Barton/Phil Coulson and eventual Simon Snow/Baz are the two relationships featured most heavily in this episode. The other eventual relationships which were stated for the record in 1x01 "Pilot" have not changed, but are so 'background' as to not be mentioned.
> 
> That being said, this fic is and will always continue to be Clint/Coulson focused. All other relationships are 'background' compared to them.

“We are gathered here today in memory of Captain Robert Block, dedicated officer and steadfast friend, who was killed in the line of duty, struck down while defending his starship and his crew.”

Clint Barton made a face, scrunching up his nose and not entirely suppressing his snort, before he remembered where he was. Standing in the front row of a Starfleet captain’s funeral was a bad place to be derisive, but come on - Block hadn’t been killed in some gallant struggle for control of the galaxy, he’d been vaporized in a bar fight. It’d been a stupid, senseless murder, and it was all Clint’s fault. It felt cheap to pretend otherwise.

“Captain Block was born on Earth,” Jasper Sitwell, the commander of Starbase G-6, went on. Clint didn’t know if Sitwell had known Block, or if he’d just been roped into doing the eulogy. “An only child, he excelled early, and by the time he was eight had decided to take up the family mantle and apply to Starfleet. He was accepted into the Academy in 2347 on his first attempt, and quickly established himself as a cadet of interest.”

Clint pushed his guilt aside and tried to focus on the funeral. This wasn’t about him - it was about Block, a guy who’d been, by all accounts, a decent captain. Apparently, he’d also been a bigot, and Natasha seemed to think he’d been an idiot, but then Clint assumed most of Starfleet took a pretty narrow view of the galaxy, and Natasha thought _everyone_ was an idiot.

Even him. Especially him, come to think about it. 

Clint looked around for her, catching sight of her standing next to Block’s casket - a torpedo tube, closed and covered in a crisp white cloth with the Federation logo embroidered on the front in blue. The tube was symbolic more than anything, since there’d been nothing left of Block’s body to jettison into space. Natasha hadn’t looked down at it once. She stared straight ahead, her expression stoic, her stance military perfect. Her thick red hair had been pulled back from her face into a neat bun, and she looked every inch the worthy successor to Block that she was, the new captain of the _U.S.S. Shield._

And yet Clint could still see the young, lost officer she had been, the one Clint had spared on Pacifica, who’d walked into his line of fire and stayed there, determined to die.

It had been six years since that day, almost seven now, and here she was, a captain. Her promotion had taken place the day before, a short, small ceremony with only Coulson - Commander Phil Coulson, now - and the rest of the senior staff in attendance. Clint had been invited as Natasha’s guest - nobody knew their history, but everyone understood that he was under investigation by Security Chief Danielle Cage, and Natasha had commented that it was better to have him close where they could keep an eye on him than off and about, causing trouble. 

Clint hadn’t cared what she’d needed to say to get him an invite, he’d just been happy to be there. _Captain_ Natasha Romanova. He eyed the pips on her collar, four solid gold dots, and grinned. He couldn’t be prouder.

A cough from his right drew his attention. Clint looked over and saw Coulson - dressed in his formal, knee-length white dress jacket and tailored pants and looking too handsome for words - frowning at him. Clint realized he’d been staring at Natasha and grinning like a loon, so he quickly schooled his expression and looked down at his feet. From beside him, Clint felt more than heard Coulson’s answering, “Humph.”

Clint grit his teeth. Coulson had been quick to claim his place in line at Natasha’s left hand, officially because he was now her first officer, but really - Clint was sure - so he could keep an eye on ‘Hawkeye.’ Clint may have been invited to stand at the front because he’d been present when Captain Block had been killed, but Coulson clearly didn’t trust him. 

Not that Clint could blame him. Coulson had spent _years_ chasing ‘Hawkeye’ - Clint’s handle when he was working as a mercenary - around the galaxy as a member of Starfleet Intelligence. He was probably waiting for the first sign of trouble to throw Clint’s ass in jail. 

Clint bared his teeth in a shark’s grin. If that’s what Coulson was waiting for, then he was going to be disappointed. Clint wasn’t going to do anything to fuck up Natasha’s career. Not to mention having a safe, comfortable place to sleep, the knowledge that no one was currently trying to kill him, and uninterrupted access to a certified Starfleet replicator that was in no danger of shorting out and programmed with exotic foods and delicacies from all over the galaxy was an opportunity he wasn’t about to miss. He didn’t know how long he’d be welcome aboard the _U.S.S Shield,_ but he was going to enjoy every minute of it.

And that meant standing here, expression schooled, trying not to fidget while the speeches went on and on and _on._

“Robert distinguished himself early during the Great Shakes of 2352 on Delos Four,” Sitwell was saying, reading from a script. “As an ensign he risked his own life to rescue civilians trapped in the rubble. He went on to a promotion and a transfer to the _U.S.S. Hero_ where he once again...”

Clint tuned him out for the sake of sanity. Looking up, he glanced over the sea of people standing at attention in the shuttle bay. Starbase G-6 didn’t have the space to host the funeral, since the majority of the hundred-odd personnel of the _U.S.S Shield_ were required to attend. There were also the officials from the Starbase itself to host, not to mention the row of brass Starfleet had sent. To accommodate everyone, the funeral had been organized in the _Shield_ ’s shuttle bay, and arranged so that the casket stood in the front next to the bay doors while Natasha, as the new captain, stood beside it, looking out towards her crew. Clint, Coulson, and the rest of the senior staff stood shoulder-to-shoulder beside her.

From his spot, Clint could look out onto the shuttle bay and see everyone except the senior staff and Base Commander Sitwell, speaking from a podium on the other side of the torpedo casing. It gave him the willies to be so on display - as a sniper, he was used to hiding in corners, on rooftops or up in trees, and as a mercenary his _modus operandi_ was _don’t get caught._ Coulson had always been chasing him, and if Coulson could see him, then Clint was snuffed. 

To keep himself from twitching again - and likely drawing Coulson’s attention - Clint let his eyes wander over the room. There were two ensigns whispering quietly in the corner, scientists going by the blue strip across their white dress jackets. Another man stood in the back, slightly separate from the rest of the crew, with a greenish cast to his skin. He was clearly of either Vulcan or Romulan heritage, but he wore the dress uniform trimmed in gold. Clint was pretty sure that gold stood for security or operations or something. Maybe both. The officer was probably part Vulcan then, except that as he stood straight, shoulders rigid, he looked _supremely_ uncomfortable. Clint hadn’t known many Vulcans, but he was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to be so obviously out of sorts.

Behind that man was a short, empty row, and then the line of brass stood along the back wall. They were all clearly decorated Starfleet officers, each standing ramrod straight with a litany of medals across their chests. Three men and two women, they watched the funeral with tight, expressionless faces.

Clint had to wonder what this looked like to them. Captain Block, their colleague, had been killed in Down Below, the notorious Orion-run bar operating beneath the twelfth deck of Starbase G-6. It’d been a surprising murder - no one knew why Block had been killed. Clint only knew that ‘Hawkeye’ had been lured to Down Below on false pretenses. Someone had impersonated his usual contact and offered him a job stealing the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, a holy Betazoid artifact that would have fetched a hefty price on the black market. Clint was supposed to meet his contact in Down Below with the chalice.

Except that when he’d gotten there - having stolen the chalice with only some difficulty, Coulson hot on his tail - Clint had found that Los knew nothing of the transaction, and instead two Nausicaans had been waiting for him.

Nausicaans were big, brutish aliens well known throughout the galaxy as hired muscle. When Clint had refused to go with them, a Starfleet officer he’d befriended had stepped up to defend him, and then Block, her captain, had stepped up to defend _her._

The fight had turned deadly, fast. Coulson, having arrived on the scene, shot one of the Nausicaans to save Clint’s life, and the other had turned around and killed Captain Block.

In a surprising move, the Nausicaan then turned his weapon upon himself.

The aftermath had been chaotic. Starbase G-6 security was a mess, their chief having recently resigned under what most agreed were shady circumstances, and there had been no one in command qualified to head the investigation. The job had therefore fallen on the _U.S.S. Shield_ ’s new chief security officer, Danielle Cage, a Betazoid who’d recently transferred to the ship. Everyone had confidence in her, but Clint had been - secretly - asked by Admiral Fury to pursue a second investigation, using his contacts in the underworld and the black market, the ones Starfleet wasn’t supposed to acknowledge.

Clint’s questions were simple: why had the Nausicaans jumped him? Why had they attacked when threatened? What was so important that a Starfleet captain had been killed?

No one knew the answers, but Clint was determined to find out. He had to admit his motive was selfish - he wanted to justify Fury’s faith in him. No one had ever trusted him with so important a mission before. 

Studying the row of brass standing along the back, Clint wondered if they could offer some sort of clue. Having little enough to go on, he’d started his investigation by reading Block’s public file. He knew most of the information Sitwell was droning on about, but he didn’t recognize these officers. Were they part of Block’s previous crew? Were they friends? He knew Block didn’t have any family. 

Clint considered them. They were a stoic group, dressed in the same formal white uniforms as the other Starfleet senior officers, with only the medals across their chests to distinguish them. Clint didn’t recognize any of the designs, but there was one that caught his attention - a round circle with a single dot in the centre, all done in silver against a black background. It meant nothing to him, but it was the only medal all five of them had in common. Memorizing its simple structure, Clint made a note to look it up later. 

“And so he will be remembered - fondly, with honor, and with the respect befitting his station - as Captain Robert Benjamin Block, Starfleet Captain and hero of Velari Six.” 

No one clapped, but all conversation buzzing in the background immediately ceased. Clint hadn’t known you could make over a hundred people shut up at once, but this group managed it. The silence of the shuttle bay was suddenly absolute as an officer Clint didn’t know stepped forward. 

She stood in the silence for a moment before raising some sort of instrument to her lips. A second later there was a sharp, piercing whistle. 

Clint winced. His hearing aids buzzed, the feedback loud and sharp. Clint darted a glance to either side, checking to see if either Coulson on his right or McKay - the science officer he’d seen in Down Below after Block had been murdered - on his left, had noticed. Neither of them seemed to.

Clint carefully exhaled, turning his attention back to the funeral while he resisted the urge to rub his now-irritated ears. His hearing aids were small, skin-coloured nubs that were almost invisible unless someone was looking for them, and he’d managed to keep their necessity a secret for most of his life. He wasn’t going to betray that now. 

The officer with the whistle finished her short notes and moved back into line as Natasha stepped forward. She kept her expression focused, her posture perfect, but Clint could read the tension in her shoulders. She didn’t like being on display any more than he did. 

“My fellow officers, crewmates, friends. We now say goodbye to Captain Block, thank him for all he has taught us, and consign his remains to the blackness of space. As a Starfleet officer, he knew this day would come, and he embraced it. Because of that, we let him go not with sadness, but with a willingness to continue his legacy, and our journey among the stars.” 

With that, Natasha unclasped her hands and tapped her comm badge, and a ring of transporter energy appeared around the torpedo casing. The casing vanished.

Clint thought it was a strange way to bury somebody, even if it was Starfleet tradition. Clint found himself glad that there’d been nothing left of Block’s body. He’d hate to think of the man drifting forever through the emptiness of space.

Once the hum of the transporter beam had faded, the shuttle bay gave a collective exhale and the buzz of conversation started up again. Clint looked to his right and left, but Coulson was already speaking with Natasha, and McKay looked miserable and not like he wanted company. Clint stepped back and watched as the Vulcan or Romulan crewmember with the gold shoulders made his way up from the back. He came and stood by McKay, bumping their shoulders together once, but didn’t say anything. Even so, McKay seemed to take comfort in his presence, slumping forward and letting his expression wobble.

Clint wasn’t very good with tears. He turned away, deciding that McKay’s friend could help if the scientist needed a shoulder to cry on.

Stepping forward into the shuttle bay, Clint eyed the back wall. There was supposed to be food after the ceremony, and already a line of tables was being set up along the side, replicators humming. Clint headed in that direction, noting as he moved that the line of brass turned and looked at each other, paused in some kind of silent communication, and then left the shuttle bay as one. 

Clint frowned as he watched them go.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you to be careful with your face or it would freeze like that?”

Clint turned in surprise to see Harry Dresden, the _U.S.S. Shield_ ’s chief engineer and the crewmember he’d befriended on Starbase G-6, standing beside him. “What? No. Besides, she died when I was four.” 

“Oh.” Harry grimaced. “Sorry, that was stupid of me to say. I hear you, though; my mom died giving birth to me and my dad died when I was six.” 

Clint nodded. In some ways he was grateful he had so few memories of his parents - it made it harder to miss them.

Of course, his father had been an abusive asshole, _that_ much he remembered. He was glad he couldn’t recall more. His mother had been beautiful, but sad, and sometimes, if he was very lucky, she’d sing. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, and her eyes went unfocused for a moment before snapping back to his. “It’s my own fault for opening like that, though. What I _wanted_ to ask you and should have just said like a normal person was: what’s wrong?”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Nothing. Why?”

Harry nodded towards the shuttle bay exit. She was a full head taller than everyone else in the room, and it must have been easy for her to keep an eye on it. She was human - Clint was nearly sure of it - but _extremely_ tall. “You were scowling.”

“Oh.” Clint glanced back to where the Starfleet brass had been standing. “It’s nothing - I just wondered why the fancy officers with all the medals on their chests had gone. It seems strange that they’d leave without congratulating our new captain.”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, they should have at least said hello. Who knows? Starfleet.” She snorted. “Maybe there’s some regulation about not speaking to a new captain at a funeral.”

Clint smiled. “You aren’t a fan of the endless regulations then?”

Harry rolled her eyes. “Ghah. My engine room would run a lot smoother if I didn’t have to double check I’ve crossed my _t_ ’s and dotted my _i_ ’s. Still - ” She followed Clint’s gaze to where the brass had been. “ - Starfleet took me in when it didn’t have to. That means a lot to me.”

Clint smiled and bumped their shoulders together. Harry was wearing white, the same as the other command staff, and for once she was without the heavy black duster he’d always seen her in. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. I’m stuck on this ship of do-gooders, after all. It’s good to have some nefarious company.”

She laughed, the tension in her shoulders dissolving. “Yeah, right, that’s me - the Starfleet Delinquent.” She bumped their shoulders back. “How long are you tied to this boat, anyhow?”

“No clue. Until Cage clears me of all suspicion, I guess, or until I apologize the traditional thirteen hundred and thirteen times for stealing the Sacred Chalice of Rixx.” He made a face. “Either or.”

“I think she’s waiting on the second,” Harry admitted. They looked around together, catching sight of Cage speaking with Lieutenant Snow, the Operations officer, on the other side of the shuttle bay. “I don’t think she honestly suspects you.”

“Yeah,” Clint admitted. Privately, he wasn’t in a hurry. It’d be easier to run his own investigation from the _Shield_ for now, where he could bug Cage for updates from Starfleet. 

And where the food was plentiful, and free.

“Hey, so I hear there’s supposed to be lunch at this thing,” Clint said. “You hungry?”

Harry flashed him a grin. “Always.” 

Together, they turned and made their way towards the groaning tables. Clint took a plate and started loading it high with delicacies from Earth, all of them Block’s supposed favourites. “What’s this yellow thing here?”

“Chicken ball with lemon sauce,” Harry informed him, glancing over his shoulder. “It’s good, take one. And this - ” She added a skewer of chicken and some kind of bright red gloop. “Block was a fan of fake Chinese cuisine, don’t ask me why.”

Clint shrugged and took a bite. He groaned - it was delicious, sweet and crispy and so hot it steamed. “Oh my god. I am never leaving this ship. Ever.”

Harry laughed. “That’s Starfleet for you. It seduces you with food.”

“Consider me bought and paid for,” Clint agreed. He swallowed hastily. “Okay, what’s next?”

 

*

 

Natasha rolled her shoulders as she walked to Medical, glad to finally be out of her dress uniform. The stiff, white fabric was constrictive, slowing her reaction time and limiting her movement. She couldn’t be the only officer who found it intolerable, surely? But two centuries of history and Starfleet had yet to fix the problem.

Typical.

Glad to be once again in her flexible, if form-fitting, black uniform with red shoulders, Natasha resisted the urge to lift a hand and count the pips on her collar. She was a captain now - as unlikely as that felt and seemed - and she needed to start believing that. 

It was easier to accept the mantle of command as she walked the familiar corridors - _her_ corridors, now. Her ship, her crew, her responsibility. 

People nodded to her as she walked by. The crew had always been polite, but during the six months she’d been on the _Shield_ serving as Block’s First Officer, they’d somehow come to respect her. Natasha wasn’t sure why, and she didn’t know how to measure up to the trust they now put into her as Captain.

Silencing her doubts by compartmentalizing them as she’d been taught, Natasha turned into the final corridor towards Medical. It was in the middle of the ship, per regulations, and consisted of a triage bay, a surgical room, and a medical office. Because the _Shield_ had previously done duty as a science vessel, Medical had been connected via a back corridor to the rest of the ship’s laboratories. 

It was the kind of versatility that was typical of the _Miranda_ class. Starfleet’s most prolific starship class, all _Miranda_ ships were well balanced in regards to scientific, defensive, and offensive capabilities. The _Shield,_ for instance, had six dual phaser banks located on her primary hull and two single phaser emitters. She’d been retrofitted during the Dominion War to hold another two rear-posted phaser emitters, as well as two forward and two aft photon torpedo launchers. She also boasted both astrophysics and biochem laboratories, and kept enough post-docs on board to justify the resources those labs required. Her overall crew complement remained small, just over one hundred, so she was also well suited to the action she’d seen since the war - namely patrol duty.

It really was the perfect assignment. The _Shield_ had the resources to defend herself if they should run into problems, and there was enough of a rotation in terms of space and planets they visited to give the scientists something to talk about. Admiral Fury was likely to order them to resume patrol when Natasha met him for their video conference in fifteen minutes, which would be a perfectly good division of resources. Still, it wasn’t the most romantic of assignments.

Natasha frowned at the thought. She’d thought all the romance had been beaten out of her. Perhaps her promotion to captain had addled her more than she’d thought.

Focusing her thoughts, she reached Medical. “Doctor Pitch?” she asked, announcing herself as the doors whispered open. “You asked to see me?”

Baz - Doctor Tyrannus Basilton Pitch, but known colloquially as ‘Baz’ to pretty much everyone - poked his head out his office. He was human, male, of average height, with pale skin and black hair giving him a severe air that he never bothered softening. Natasha liked him, despite their few interactions. “Yes, Captain. Over here, please.”

Natasha nodded and made her way through the empty triage bay towards his office. Baz had complained multiple times in the six months she’d been on board that no one got sick enough to need a physician on a ship this size. 

“I’m almost done,” Baz was saying when she reached his office. He was turned away from her, leaning over his desk and typing on a pad while looking at his monitor. Like the rest of Medical, his office was spotless. Natasha wondered if he cleaned in his spare time. 

“There,” Baz said, typing a final command before turning and handing the padd to Natasha with a flourish. “The complete autopsy report on Captain Block, as requested.”

Natasha took the padd. The database was empty except for two files, and she chose the first one. As she opened it, she noticed that despite Baz’s confident air, he was shifting nervously from foot to foot. His English accent was also unusually prominent today. An indication of stress?

Likely. 

Keeping her posture casual, Natasha turned and leaned one hip against his desk, skimming the report and keeping one eye on Baz. “Interesting,” she said, mainly to buy herself time. What did she know about Baz? His mother had been a famous Starfleet captain before her death, untimely if well memorialized during the Dominion War, her tactics now required reading at Starfleet Academy.

Baz seemed to have inherited her genius, though he used his intelligence more for reading and for medicine, and for looking down at others without his ability to think and speak quickly. He was the only person she knew who could match McKay spat for spat. 

He hated it here, however. He’d made that fact perfectly clear, and had requested several transfers off the ship, all of which had been denied by Captain Block. Baz could have gone above him and spoken directly to Starfleet Command, but that would have been poor form and would have looked badly for him, and everyone knew it.

Was that what bothered him now? Was he wondering when he could put in another request for transfer, or was it something else? The report she held in her hands, perhaps?

“I’m surprised you managed to retrieve such good samples,” Natasha commented, glancing back down at the padd. The rest of the report was pretty standard - the quality of the samples was the only abnormality she could find. “I would have thought the genetic material would have been more distorted.”

Baz shrugged, shuffling slightly. “It was fortunate. The Nausicaan’s disruptor blast vaporized the captain but did leave an obvious ring of ash, some of which contained well-preserved genetic material.”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed. “A ‘perfect match’, I believe you say here.”

Baz nodded, a little too quickly. “Yes, Comm - I mean, Captain.” He blushed, a stain of red across his pale cheeks. “Sorry, sir.”

She waved the slip away. “It won’t be the last time, Doctor, I’m sure of it. This transition is going to be difficult for everybody.”

He grimaced. “Of course.”

They stood in silence for a moment. Natasha prized herself on her ability to wait out any attempt at intimidation, but Admiral Fury was waiting for her call. “Very well, Doctor,” she finally said, breaking the silence just as Baz was starting to sweat. Damn. “Thank you for your time.”

“Of course, sir,” he said, his shoulders relaxing as she stepped back. “The Nausicaan’s autopsy report is also there, just under Block’s. It’s what we thought, a single phaser burst to the central cavity. Death was nearly instantaneous, and the energy signature matches that of Commander Coulson’s weapon. As there were several witnesses to the conflict, I know the facts aren’t in question, but there you have it.”

“Yes,” Natasha agreed, tapping the padd, “I do. Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, turning and walking back to his office before she had quite left Medical. 

Natasha tried to puzzle through the conversation as she walked back to the bridge, but the turbolift doors opened before she’d come to a satisfactory conclusion as to what she should do next. She didn’t know Baz well enough to know what would happen if she pushed him on the information he was clearly leaving out.

Coulson was sitting in the command chair on the bridge. He rose when he caught sight of her, but Natasha shook her head and waved him down. She turned and headed immediately for Block’s - for _her_ \- ready room. 

“Captain,” Fury said, when she had connected to Starfleet Command. “I liked your speech today.”

“Thank you, sir,” Natasha said, instead of asking whether Fury had watched the funeral live or read a report of the activity. As both the Admiral in command of this section of space and the Director of Starfleet Intelligence, either seemed likely. 

“Well, I have your orders, Captain,” Fury went on. He glanced down at the padd he had in front of him, halfway across the galaxy. “I have to admit that my initial plan had been to put you back on patrol duty, give you a shakedown cruise of sorts. Instead, a situation has developed. Have you ever heard of Balor III?”

Natasha stopped and thought. “Third planet of the Balor system, member of the Federation, settled over a century ago by Earth colonists.” She knew the date precisely, of course, but long training kept her from revealing that fact. “Nothing special in terms of resources or location, from what I remember. The usual kind of Federation colony.”

Fury shrugged. “You’re not wrong,” he said. “Balor III has suffered some geological trouble lately. It seems a series of earthquakes have shaken the population and damaged the capital city of New Columbia. They’ve put in a request for help, and you’re the nearest ship in range.”

Natasha immediately called to mind their relief capabilities. “We can handle the worst injured, but our medical supplies are limited.”

“Yes, I am aware that you have only a single nurse and one physician on board - for that reason, the _U.S.S. Pasteur_ has been tasked to the area. She is an _Olympic_ -class hospital ship currently in orbit around Vulcan, and will arrive within eighteen hours.” Fury steepled his fingers and gave her a look. “The _Shield_ can be there in three.”

Natasha nodded. “We’ll leave immediately, of course.”

“Good,” Fury said. “Oh, and send me the data you have on Block’s autopsy. Fury, out.” 

The screen went black. Natasha blinked, wondering how he had known, before shaking her head at the thought. It didn’t matter. Tapping out a command to send the report she had to Fury’s terminal, she stood and headed for the bridge. The crew looked up as she appeared. 

The bridge of the _U.S.S. Shield_ was small, again typical of the _Miranda_ -class. The consoles were blue and silver, the carpet beige, the lighting soft. Helm and Operations were located near the bow, just in front of the viewscreen, and Security had a standing console in the back. The executive officer had their own section, also a standing console, located behind the command chair on the starboard side. The back wall was a row of computer stations with low chairs that could be modified for science or engineering. Rodney McKay sat at one.

The command chair was in the middle. Coulson was still in it, but he rose the moment Natasha appeared, and she didn’t wave him down this time. Nodding to her, he moved to take up his position at the Executive’s station.

Natasha remained where she was, acutely aware that this was her first moment, her first mission, as Captain. “I have orders from Admiral Fury,” she said, addressing the bridge at large. McKay tapped a final command on his console and then swiveled to face her. She had everyone’s complete attention. “Balor III has suffered an earthquake and the capital city has been damaged. We are to proceed with all haste and offer what help we can, until the _U.S.S. Pasteur_ arrives. Lieutenant Sheppard,” she said, turning to face the Helm. “Plot a course, please, and move us away from the station. Full impulse.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Sheppard acknowledged.

Natasha nodded and walked forward, sinking down to sit in the command chair. Her spine remained straight, but she had to admit that she felt more comfortable here - more like she was in command, and less like she was on display.

Looking down, she tapped the console located on the right arm of her chair. “Doctor Pitch,” she said as the computer connected her with his comm system. “Please be advised that Balor III is in need of medical assistance. We are enroute. Please review the orders I’m about to send to your terminal, and prepare the necessary relief. You are authorized to task whatever crewmembers you require for additional help.” She forwarded the information.

_“Understood, Captain,”_ Baz replied. He paused for a moment, no doubt skimming the data she’d just sent him. _“New Columbia has a population of just under one million but only scattered casualties are being reported at the moment. Sir, I officially request permission to join the Away Team. I won’t have an accurate assessment of the damages until I’m on site.”_

Natasha opened her mouth to agree, before remembering that Coulson, as First Officer, would be the one to command the Away Team now. Fighting down her embarrassment at having once again forgotten her recent promotion, she looked over her shoulder at her executive officer.

Coulson met her eye calmly, no censure in his gaze, and nodded. Natasha nodded back before turning her attention back to Baz. “Agreed, Doctor. Please communicate with Commander Coulson and be ready when we arrive.”

_“Understood,”_ Baz said, and signed off. 

Natasha glanced back towards the Helm. “Sheppard? How long until we reach Balor III?”

The half-Romulan checked his console. “Three hours at maximum warp,” he replied, before pausing and shooting her a glance. “I can cut that down to two hours and forty minutes if you let me skirt us around a black hole.”

His tone was faintly teasing, but Natasha could hear the tension beneath it, and hid her answering smile.

This was a test. Sheppard had never liked Block, knowing the man was a bigot, and had never offered to do something as simple as skim a little time off their estimated arrival. 

Natasha liked Sheppard. She met his eyes, and made sure not to hesitate. “Go for it, Helm. The citizens of Balor III will thank us, I’m sure.”

For the first time since she’d met him, Sheppard’s smile reached his eyes while on duty. “Aye-aye, Captain.” He typed the course correction into his console, and then held his finger over the keyboard. “Ready when you are, sir.”

Natasha lifted her eyes to the viewscreen, currently showing Starbase G-6, but beyond that, the stars. She lifted a hand, held it for a moment, and then let it fall. “Engage.”


	2. Chapter Two

“Coulson! Hey, hey - Coulson!”

Phil stopped, reined in a sigh, and turned. “Yes, Barton?”

Clint Barton jogged the final distance towards him. His smile was open, charming, and too unjustifiably attractive for words. “I need your security login.”

Phil blinked, too surprised not to show it. “Excuse me?”

Barton’s grin expanded, growing only a little tense around the edges. “I’ve been reading through the computer’s databases on Starfleet medals of honour, but I can’t seem to find what I’m looking for. For the really juicy stuff I need security clearance, and despite the whole - ” He lifted a hand and actually made air-quotes, lowering his voice as he leaned towards Phil. “‘ - secret investigation’ thing, I don’t actually have any, so.” He made grabby motions with both hands. “Can I?”

Phil didn’t even have to think about it. He turned and kept walking down the corridor. “No.”

“Aw, for - Come on, Coulson!” Barton jogged back to his side. “It’s just for five minutes, you can change your password after, no problem. I won’t even peek.”

Phil snorted. “Even if I believed you, the damage you could do with five minutes of unfettered security access is staggering.” 

“One,” Barton said, holding up a hand, “I’m impressed you think so highly of me, but, two - ” He held up a second finger. “This is legit, I swear. You can look over my shoulder the whole time.” 

“No, I can’t, because I’m on my way to the transporter room to beam down to Balor III to begin directing relief efforts,” Phil said, glancing over at him. Despite the speed of Phil's strides, Barton was effortlessly keeping pace. “As you’re aware, or you would have asked me an hour ago.”

Barton made a face. “An hour ago, I was convinced I could find the information by myself. Who locks their list of medals of honour behind a security clearance? Shouldn’t that information be publicly available?” 

It actually should, but Phil wasn’t about to tell Barton that. “I’ll have a look at it the moment I get back.”

“Great, it’s a date.” Barton flashed him that smile again. 

Phil felt his heart flutter. He ruthlessly suppressed it, knowing that Barton was as much a con-artist as he was a thief. “Colour me thrilled.”

“Oh, hey, Coulson, wait,” Barton said, lunging forward. His fingers reached out and stuttered along Phil’s arm. “Be careful down there, okay? Balor III can be a dangerous place.”

Phil resolutely ignored the faint warmth that transmitted from Barton’s touch. “It’s a Starfleet colony, Barton.”

Barton made a face. “Yeah, but it’s, like, an old one, and the original colonists had severe disagreements with Earth. I checked over your list of Away Team members and you should be fine, but the colony doesn’t like non-humans. Just be alert for trouble, okay?”

He looked so earnest, Phil couldn’t help but provide him some reassurance. “I will.”

“Good,” Barton said. He stared at Phil for a second, looking into his eyes, and then seemed to realize that he was still touching Phil’s arm and sprang back. “So, er - yeah. Good luck with the mission and all that.”

“Thank you, Barton,” Phil said. He noted the way Barton laced his hands together behind his back and leaned away from Phil, as if he could put even more distance between them.

Phil held back a sigh. Being assigned to the same ship as this man was going to prove intolerable. Barton clearly held a grudge over the two years Phil had spent hunting him down, and Phil couldn’t shake the conviction that Barton would do anything he could to escape without lingering ties to Starfleet. 

At least they weren’t bunking together any more. That first night they had stayed on the _Shield_ had been torture, Barton young and soft in sleep, his hair sticking up every which way when he woke. Phil, despite knowing Barton’s history as a mercenary and a murderer, had been in very real danger of doing something stupid. He’d been thankful every night since that the position of First Officer came with a sizable suite.

“Right, so,” Barton went on awkwardly, shuffling from foot to foot. “Bye.”

Phil watched Barton turn and walk away, and then shook his head and continued on, finishing his trek to the transporter room.

Doctor Pitch and Lieutenant Snow were waiting for him, along with a woman Phil didn’t know, a young human with soft brown hair and intelligent eyes. She had to be Ensign Simmons. 

“Sir,” Harry Dresden said, looking up from the transporter console. “There’s some lingering radiation in the area, nothing dangerous, but it does make transporter activity more difficult. I’m going to put you down fifty meters from the centre of New Columbia, near the area that seems to be the hardest hit. When you’re ready to return to the ship, give me a five minute heads up to establish contact and make sure we have a solid transporter signal, okay?”

Phil nodded, stepping forward and taking his place on the transporter platform. “Understood, Chief.”

She made a face. “Please, save ‘Chief’ for Cage, she’s the Security Head. I prefer ‘Wizard.’” She grinned as the rest of the Away Team joined him on the platform. “Here we go!”

Phil felt a tingle as the transporter beam initialized. The blue-beige-silver walls of the _Shield_ dissolved and vertigo momentarily filled him, and then he was blinking and looking around at the surface of Balor III.

The smoke in the air made his lungs seize. “Lieutenant Snow,” he forced out, resisting the urge to cough, and turned to his left. The young man was already stepping forward with his tricorder humming.

“A combination of sulphur, carbon dioxide, and magnolium, sir,” Snow said, coughing twice as he waved his tricorder in a circle. “It’s dissipating, but slowly. Preliminary readings confirm those taken by Doctor McKay aboard the ship, however. The ground appears solid and there is no indication of aftershocks.” 

“Good,” Phil said. He cleared his throat and then straightened, surveying the area. He’d lived in San Francisco for a number of years, and knew of the devastating power of earthquakes. New Columbia had certainly been disrupted. Several buildings had been toppled, and smoke rose from the site of what must have been, until recently, the centre of government. 

Still, the area around the building remained curiously undamaged. Many trees were upright and the walking paths were undisturbed. Those buildings not directly adjacent to the government offices appeared sturdy. Could an earthquake have caused this?

Phil wasn’t sure. The particular smell of this smoke also triggered some memory in him, but it was dim and resisted being brought into focus. He kept his private concerns from showing, however, always having prided himself on maintaining an unflappable demeanor. “Up this way, I believe.”

The path towards the government building was unmistakable, constructed of white, clearly hand-carved limestone. It was picturesque and local to the area, which Phil knew from his infobrief on the planet. 

He hadn’t gotten any hint of the danger Barton had been talking about, but three hours had hardly been enough time to become an expert in all things Balor III. Phil did know that the colony had been founded over a century ago. It lay close enough to the Sol system to do major trade with Earth, but was far enough away to pursue its own culture, which, history texts said vaguely, had been one of the reasons the colonists had split with Earth. On its own, Balor III had gained renown for its limestone, beautiful jewelry, and hard work ethic. It also had a museum dedicated to early colonization efforts. There were several mechanical antiques that Phil knew would fetch a hefty price on the black market. 

Which, Phil realized with a sinking sensation, was probably why Barton knew more about the planet than he did. Phil made a mental note to check the contents of the museum later, to determine if any of the pieces had been stolen and replaced with fakes. 

As they neared the crumbling building that had been the centre of government, Phil saw a number of people awaiting medical attention. Local aid workers hurried between them, distributing water and blankets and clutching hyposprays. The crowd looked up when the Away Team arrived, but one man in particular stood and hurried towards them.

“Oh, thank goodness,” he said, almost tripping himself as he rushed. He was an older man, of east Asian descent, his face unlined but his hairline receding backwards. Phil could relate. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Governor Cho,” Phil hazarded, mentally comparing the man’s face to the photo on record. Cho looked harried, but then anyone in his situation would be feeling stressed. Civilians sat clutching makeshift bandages and broken arms, though the local medics did appear to have the situation under control. “I’m Commander Phil Coulson of the _U.S.S. Shield._ How can we help? Is there anyone trapped in the rubble?” 

Cho shook his head. “No, thank you, we’ve already beamed them out. We have local transporter facilities, and while their signals were difficult to triangulate, we managed.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Phil said sincerely. “So what did you need us to do?’

“Oh,” Cho said, looking uncomfortable for a moment. “Well, really, it’s more about - ”

“Cho!” a voice snapped. Phil looked up to see a woman hurrying towards them, dark-skinned and at least a decade or two younger than Cho appeared. “That’s enough.” She reached the Away Team and ground to a halt, her thick hands on her hips. “We don’t need your assistance, thank you. You can leave.”

Phil blinked, glancing from the woman to Cho and back. “I’m sorry, you are - ?”

“Commander Coulson,” Cho introduced wearily, “this is Counsellor Yan, of the northern continent.” He glared at her. “She’s confused.”

Yan glared back and crossed her arms. “No, I’m not,” she said stoutly, turning to Phil. “This is an internal matter, and while we are a member of the Federation, we are not bound to accept help when it is unwelcome. The Council _specifically_ voted against involving Starfleet, Cho! It was wrong of you to call them!”

“That was before the parliamentary buildings were blown up!” Cho exploded. He gestured to the government offices still smoking behind them. “The situation has changed!”

“‘Blown up?’” Phil echoed. “Excuse me, but - ”

“Sir?” Doctor Pitch said, drawing Phil’s attention. Baz had left the rest of the Away Team and gone to the side of one of the injured civilians, a dark skinned man who sat on the ground, his head down. 

Pitch had angled the man’s head up, and he turned his chin now so Phil could see. Phil held back a gasp. The entire left side of the man’s face was flaming red, blistered, and oozing. 

“This man’s been in an explosion, sir. He needs medical attention now.”

“Of course,” Phil said, already reaching for his comm badge. “Be advised, _Shield_ \- ”

“No!” Yan shouted. She strode forward, her hands clenched. “Our medical personnel can attend to him.”

Doctor Pitch rose to his feet, his expression angry. “They’re busy!”

“No, they aren’t,” Yan said. “Eliiria!” she shouted, waving forward one of the medics. “Here, please!”

The woman called Eliiria nodded, her blue coat fluttering behind her as she darted forward, medical scanner in one hand. Baz pursed his lips but stepped back so she could reach the patient.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said, directing his attention to Cho again, “but did you say ‘explosion?’”

Cho sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “I’m sorry I drew Starfleet here on false pretences. I knew the Council would disagree, but I needed to - ”

“That’s enough,” Yan interrupted, her voice like ice. “Stop it, Cho.”

Cho shook his head. “We need them.”

“No, we don’t,” Yan said. “We can - ”

Her words were swallowed by a sudden burst of heat and light. Phil felt himself being picked up and flung, the force of it throwing him clear off his feet.

_Barton’s going to give me so much shit for this,_ Phil thought as he tumbled through the air. The mercenary had told him to watch himself, and Phil grimaced as the ground appeared, so far away and yet rushing closer. Drawing in his arms and legs, Phil tried to protect his head. 

It didn’t help. The moment he hit, everything went black. 

 

*

 

Baz groaned as consciousness returned, coming back to him in a flood of painful stimuli. 

_Minor lacerations to bilateral shoulders, bruises - well, that’ll be a_ less _-than-minor bruise on my backside, but I’ll live - and cracked ribs._ It hurt to breathe in and out, but he could do it. Nothing else seemed to be broken.

Time to move, then. If he was injured, there were likely other people around who were hurt worse.

He rolled onto his back. Where was he again? Right - Balor III. He’d beamed down with Coulson, Jemma, and-

_Simon!_ Baz blinked to clear his eyes, fingers scrabbling for his medical tricorder. Simon Snow had the absolute worst luck in the galaxy. If Baz had minor scratches, Simon probably had a pierced lung and was lying somewhere, gasping for air, determined not to ask for help because he was an _idiot_.

Baz blinked again. This wasn’t right. Instead of the blue-tinted skyline of Balor III’s capital city, all he could see was rock. His tricorder was on his hip, undamaged, but the ground beneath his fingers wasn’t grass or soil, it was hard-packed dirt. He clearly wasn’t on the surface of Balor III anymore. “What?”

A pained sound from his right caught his attention. Baz turned and saw Commander Coulson struggling onto his side. He looked bruised, his limbs moving stiffly, but everything seemed to flex and extend properly. There was clearly an abrasion on his left arm, the sleeve torn, but didn’t look as though it was holding him back. “Sound off,” Coulson croaked.

“I’m all right, sir,” Baz said, still scrambling to his feet. 

“I’m o - ” Jemma Simmons coughed, a painful sound. She was lying beside him on the dirt. “I’m okay.”

There was only one voice missing. Baz would deny to his dying day that his heart stopped until a groan sounded nearby and a figure slumped on its side began to turn over. “Ow.”

“Simon,” Jemma said. She sounded relieved. “Are you okay?”

It would figure that the handsome blonde Operations officer would be a favourite among the young ladies on the _Shield_. Baz ground his teeth together and shuffled over to Simon’s form. His tricorder indicated only minor wounds, and Baz’s heart rate settled _completely of its own volition_. “Let me get my medical bag.”

“Here,” Commander Coulson said, clearly having spotted it. He gingerly bent over to pick it up before bringing it over.

Baz took it with a muttered thanks. The bag had obviously been opened and examined, and the latch hadn’t been closed tight, but everything seemed to be in its proper place. “Where are we?”

Coulson shook his head, looking around. “I’m not sure.” His hand was on his holster, but it was empty. Baz checked for his own phaser and found it missing. 

They appeared to be in a cave system of some kind. The light was all artificial, the dirt floor crowded along the sides with crates and boxes. Most of them seemed empty, their lids missing or lying beside them on the floor. Baz saw how Jemma quickly glanced over their environment for clues.

“I’d say it’s likely we’re under New Columbia,” she said. “There’s a fascinating network of cave systems under the city. It’s the limestone, you see, it creates a natural - ”

“Yes, Simmons, thank you,” Coulson interrupted. “That’s good to know.”

Jemma’s smile faltered. “Sorry, sir.”

Coulson waved it off. “I meant it - it’s good to know. Right now, however, our focus should be on escape.” He frowned down at his communicator, tapped it experimentally, and looked unsurprised when nothing happened.

“Are we prisoners?” Simon asked. Baz looked over to see that he’d made his way to his feet, but he was slightly hunched over, as if still in pain. “There was something about a bomb?”

Coulson sighed. “I knew the smell of the smoke was familiar. That was a _yǐncáng_ bomb, first constructed during the early years of Earth’s space age and popular among the Humans First resistance movement on Earth. I studied their tactics in history class decades ago.” He grimaced. “Barton tried to warn me that Balor III was an anti-alien colony, but I didn’t understand.” 

Jemma was frowning. “All _yǐncáng_ technology was made obsolete or destroyed.”

Coulson shrugged. “Clearly not all of it.” For the benefit of the rest of them, he explained. “In addition to being a typical bomb, _yǐncáng_ technology scatters transporter signals. A hundred years ago, two bombs would have completely shut down all transport on and off this planet. Nowadays, it means Wizard Dresden will just have to try a little harder.”

Baz snorted, wincing when it hurt his ribs. “‘Wizard’ Dresden?” he asked skeptically. “Are you honestly going to call her that?”

Coulson smiled, momentarily wicked. “Absolutely. She requested it, after all.”

“A dark precedent,” Baz predicted. He fished his dermal regenerator out of his bag and then reached for Simon, ignoring his hiss as he pushed Baz’s hand away. “She’ll be intolerable after this.”

“She’s fine,” Simon argued, “and I am, too.” He shifted back, and then winced. “Tend to the Commander first.”

Baz rolled his eyes. “A first year med student could see that you’re the most badly injured. Do I have to explain basic triage to you again?”

Simon glared. “Maybe. If it will make you go away.”

“Not likely,” Baz sniffed. “Now do you I have to order you to stand still?”

Simon set his jaw. “As if you could.”

“Actually, he outranks you,” Jemma interrupted. “As Chief Medical Officer, Doctor Pitch has full authority to - ”

“ _Jemma,_ ” Simon growled.

“Thank you, my dear Ensign Simmons,” Baz said, smiling at her. Maybe the science officer with medical training wasn’t so bad after all. 

“Fine,” Simon said, prissily, glaring at his dermal regenerator and the hypospray in Baz' hands. “Just try not to poison me this time.”

“That was an accident,” Baz protested, unable to help but smile at the memory. Now that he knew Simon would only swell up and turn purple when exposed to elarium, and not become dangerously anaphylactic, it was rather funny. 

“That’s what you always say,” Simon huffed. He pointedly ignored Baz and turned back to Coulson. “Will the Wizard Dresden be able to lock onto us? We can’t get a comm signal.”

“I’m sure she’ll do her best,” Coulson said. “The lack of communication is probably a combination of the bomb, the rock, and additional interference. If someone wanted to keep us from contacting the _Shield_ they would have relied upon more than just century-old technology.”

There was the sound of a footfall, and the Away Team tensed. Baz turned to see a white man with a sneering expression step into the cavern. 

“You’re absolutely right,” the man said. “We’ve made sure no one can leave without our say so.”

Baz found his jaw clenching at the haughty tone. Coulson, in contrast, just looked calm. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he said.

The man threw his shoulders back. “My name is Blad, and I am the leader of the True People of Balor III. We unanimously reject your Federation, and as an independent people, demand that you leave our system immediately. What concerns we have on this planet are now protected under the Prime Directive.”

Jemma made a disbelieving noise. “That’s not how the - ”

Coulson held up a hand, silencing her, even as he kept his gaze on Blad. “I’m sorry, your claim will have to be logged and registered with the Federation Council before such a drastic change can be made.”

Baz snorted. “Not to mention, it’s impossible for us to leave the system when you won’t even let us beam back to our ship.”

Blad’s upper lip curled. “Of course we won’t let you escape, you would use your alien-loving ship to destroy our new government, erasing any evidence that the People of Balor III have spoken.”

Baz could practically hear the capital letters. “Oh, come on - ”

Coulson was shaking his head. “Doctor Pitch - ”

“Besides,” Blad went on, “we know who you are. We’ve been in communication with your ship.” He turned and another revolutionary, a woman, stepped into the cavern, holding what looked to be some sort of imager and gestured her forward. 

She nodded and stepped up, flicking a button so the large red dot on the machine turned green, and pointing the imager in Blad’s direction.

“As you see, Captain Romanova,” Blad declared, sweeping his arms out to either side of him. “Your crew is here, and alive. How long they remain that way is up to you.”

There was no holographic projector, but Baz could hear Romanova’s reply. “I can see that, Mr Blad. Now return my people and I will consider your demands.”

She was obviously trying to sound calm, but worry and frustration were edging into her voice. Baz couldn’t help but compare her reaction to how Block would have responded, and found himself smiling. Block would probably have been more pissed that their capture would look bad on his record than honestly worrying about their lives. In contrast to the deceased captain, Baz really liked Romanova. He wished he could trust her, but experience had taught him otherwise.

“No,” Blad said, shaking his head. He looked angry again. “Enough stalling. Do what I wished, now, or your people will pay the price for your failure.”

“Mr Blad - ” Romanova started.

Blad turned to the Away Team and pulled a blaster from his pocket. Baz caught his breath. He could hear Romanova shouting in the background but his attention had focused on Blad and the crazed look in his eyes. 

“Which one of you is the Commander?” Blad demanded.

Coulson calmly stepped forward, his gaze steady, his shoulders back. “I am.”

“Okay,” Blad said, nodding. He lifted the blaster, and then turned, and shot Simon at point-blank range.

Simon’s eyes went wide. His hands came up. The blast tore into his chest, spinning him around.

Baz was already moving. He dropped his bag and caught Simon before he could fall, lowering him gently to the ground. The wound was ugly, but Baz assessed the damage automatically, pushing the horror away, along with the fear and the need for revenge. 

“You have one hour,” Blad demanded distantly, presumably speaking to the imager, “and then I shoot another one, perhaps someone more vital this time. Think carefully, Captain.” With that he turned and stalked away. The resistance fighter with the imager hurried after him.

Baz was only distantly aware of their movements. His entire focus was on Simon and the horrible amount of blood that was already spilling onto the ground.

“What the - ?” Simon said, struggling to lift his head. He looked to be in shock.

“Shut up,” Baz snarled. He wrapped his hand around Simon’s wrist, feeling for his pulse. “Someone get me my med bag!”

 

*

 

Natasha whirled away from the viewscreen, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “Emergency meeting, now! Cage, call Dresden and tell her to get her ass up to the bridge immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” Danielle Cage replied, and her fingers danced across her console. Clint saw her pinched expression tighten. No doubt the Betazoid was beset with worry, her own concern echoed by the fears of the rest of the crew. 

Clint was still trying to get his heart rate to calm down. The sight of Coulson staring into the face of that madman, clearly prepared to sacrifice himself for his team, seemed seared into his memory forever.

The ensign in gold who’d taken over Ops when Snow had beamed down to the surface looked up. “Sir? Governor Cho from the surface is asking for you.”

Natasha balanced her hands on her hips and glared at the viewscreen. “Put him on.”

“Er, Captain?” Cho said nervously, once the connection had been established. “I’m so sorry about this, but - ”

“But nothing,” Natasha fumed. “You lied to us, Governor. You told us this was an earthquake, and it wasn’t, and you told us you had our people when the explosion occurred, and you didn’t. Now a madman has my people and he’s already shot one of them. What lies are you telling us now?” 

Cho swallowed. “I know where he’s keeping them.”

Natasha met his gaze and held it. 

“I do,” Cho promised. He was sweating. “I honestly do. He has a compound, it’s under the city, in a network of tunnels.” He grimaced. “We don’t, of course, have a completed map yet, but - ”

“Send me the information,” Natasha snapped.

“I will,” Cho promised. “I - ”

Natasha had already turned away. She made a cutting motion at Ops, and the ensign switched off the transmission. 

The bridge crew held its collective breath as they stared at their captain, her hands on her hips and chest heaving, clearly furious.

The turbolift doors opened and Harry stumbled out, her long black coat fluttering. “What happened? What’d I miss?”

“Conference room,” Natasha snapped. “Senior staff, now. Sheppard, you too. Ops, call the beta team to man the bridge, we have a rescue mission to mount.”

“Yes, sir,” the ensign at Ops snapped. She typed out a quick command on her console.

Clint looked at Natasha, his gut churning. He desperately wanted to be at that meeting, but he didn’t have clearance, and there was no way Natasha would - 

“Barton,” Natasha said. “Get in here. I have a feeling your particular skill set will be required.”

Clint exhaled in relief and hopped to it. “Yes, sir.”

 

*

 

“So, that’s what’s going on,” Natasha said to the conference room. She stood at the head of the long, oval table, a map of New Columbia on the viewscreen behind her. “This ‘Blad’ wants us to contact Starfleet, demand the removal of Balor III from the Federation Charter, and leave this system forever. He’s given us one hour. If we don’t acquiesce to his demands, he’ll execute another member of our crew.”

Sheppard winced. McKay nervously bit his bottom lip. “Do we know for certain that Lieutenant Snow is dead?” he asked.

Natasha sighed. “No, we don’t. We can’t read their lifesigns, but we know that at the time of Blad's transmission, the rest of the Away Team is alive. Doctor Pitch is present. I’m sure he’ll do everything in his power to save Lieutenant Snow.”

McKay muttered something under his breath, paused, and then cocked his head as if listening to something someone else was saying.

Clint ignored him. He focused on the map of the city. “Where did Cho say they were?”

Harry stood up and pointed. The partial, incomplete map of the cavern system appeared on the viewscreen, layered over New Columbia, located several meters beneath it. “Here,” she said, indicating one of the deeper caverns. “He thinks they’re here.”

Natasha frowned. “What kind of assurance do we have on that? Dresden?”

Harry shook her head. “The same interference that’s scattering our transporter signals is playing havoc with our sensors. Forget lifesigns, I can’t even get an approximation of numbers. The good news is that I think I’ve cleared away a lot of the static; if we can get a set of pattern enhancers around the crew, I should be able to transport them back to the ship without difficulty.”

Clint met Natasha’s eye and knew that she was thinking the same thing he was. He looked at Harry. “How big are the pattern enhancers?”

Harry considered that. “A meter high, usually, but most of that is casing designed to get the enhancer to chest height.”

“Could you get them smaller?” Clint asked. “Small enough to fit on the tip of an arrow?”

McKay started. “You want to _shoot_ our crew?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “I want to shoot _around_ them, or maybe snag one of them on some clothing or something.”

“It’d have to be clothing,” Harry said, obviously considering the physics. “If I’m going to get them that small, they’ll need to be touching their target, and chest height would still be best, to ensure that we don’t leave any hands or feet behind.”

“That would be bad,” Cage said dryly.

Natasha snorted. “You can say that again. Barton,” she said, looking at Clint. “Can you do it?”

Clint nodded. “I’ll have to see the prototype Harry comes up with, but yeah. I can do it.”

Cage shook her head. “It should be me.”

Natasha considered that. “I agree that as Security Chief, a rescue operation such as this would usually fall into your purview, but Mr Barton - also know as Hawkeye - has been flagged by Starfleet Intelligence as being one of the best marksmen and infiltration experts in the galaxy.” She met Cage’s eye. “I’m sure you’re very good, Lieutenant Commander, but he’s better.”

Clint bit his lip, his pride at Natasha’s statement of fact overshadowed by Cage’s potential reaction. He didn’t want to make trouble here, but he did want to get the Away Team safely home. 

Cage didn’t say anything. Clint felt the need to fill the silence.

“I can do it,” he promised her. He stared at her until she turned to him, her expression shuttered. “I _will_.”

Cage met his eyes. “You’d better.”

“Radek and I will help,” McKay volunteered suddenly. “If you cut the mars ratio in half and use a macro to re-establish proper values, then - ”

“ - You could cut the weight of the pattern enhancer,” Harry interrupted. “Yes, of course, but Rodney, then you’d have to - ”

“Everyone, please,” Natasha said, forestalling the argument by holding up a hand. “If you have science to do, then please do it. Barton, as soon as the equipment is done, I’m sending you in.”

Clint nodded. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” She looked around the conference room. “I’m going to act in good faith and contact Starfleet Command. I’ll inform them of the situation, and will - as promised - let them know Blad’s demands. That way I’ll be able to speak truthfully when we contact him at the end of our hour, and Starfleet will know the amount of crazy that’s been left to fester on a planet so deep inside the Federation.” There were dark chuckles from around the table. “Does anyone have anything to add to this?” Natasha asked. “Questions?” 

She waited, looking around to catch every crew member’s eye. When no one spoke, she nodded and stepped back from the table. “Very well, then. Good luck.”

The senior staff stood. Clint followed them, but stopped when Natasha put a hand on his arm.

He let the crew pass him by, and then turned to her after the door had whispered shut. “Yes?”

Natasha’s gaze was serious. “I didn’t mean to draw so much attention to you publicly. I don’t want to make an enemy of Cage.”

Clint grimaced. “I know. I can complete the mission, though, and I don’t know if she can.” He met her eyes. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

Natasha nodded. “Of course.” She huffed, quietly amused. “You have to know you’re just about the only person in this galaxy I _do_ trust.”

“I know,” Clint admitted. He covered her hand with his. “I trust you, too, and I’m proud to serve under you.” He grinned. “My captain.”

She chuckled quietly. “Sure.”

Clint cocked his head. “Hey,” he said, pulling her into a hug. “You are, you know? My captain.” He gave her a squeeze. “And you’re doing great.”

Surprisingly, she squeezed back. “Thanks,” she said, her voice slightly muffled. She held onto him. “I’m pretty much flying by the seat of my pants here.”

Clint chuckled. “I’m pretty sure that’s the secret to command.”

“Not so secret anymore, then,” Natasha countered. She pulled back just enough to look up at him and smile. “Thank you, Clint.” She hesitated. “I know this isn’t exactly where you planned on being, but I’m glad you’re here.”

“I am, too,” he admitted. “It’s weird, but I’m actually enjoying myself. And you’re here,” he squeezed her. “ _Ches’nek’a._ ”

“ _Ches’nek’o,_ ” Natasha echoed, squeezing him back. The term meant, as far as Clint could translate, ‘soul-brother.’

“Come on,” Natasha said, a moment later, pulling back again. “Let’s do this.”

Clint nodded and let her go. “Let’s get our people home.”


	3. Chapter Three

Baz still didn’t like the amount of blood Simon had lost, but at least the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. He was incredibly glad he’d packed an extra power pack for his dermal regenerator. “Stop twitching.”

“It burns,” Simon snarled, or tried to. His voice was far too weak for that, coming out more like a wheeze.

“That means it’s working,” Baz snapped. It didn’t, not really, but lying was an integral part of his relationship with Simon these days. What it _really_ meant was that the regenerator was vaporizing biological contaminants while it tried to stitch Simon’s insides closed. Baz had jacked up the power ratio for the device so it could do more than just bind skin wounds. It was a dirty solution, but it was the only thing he could think of that would keep Simon alive. 

The burning sensation was a small price to pay. Baz couldn’t do anything to fix that without magically conjuring a surgical suite with a sterile field, and if he was going to do _that,_ he would include an OR bed and a bone-knitter and another six dozen hyposprays, at least. Maybe some nanoprobes. The technology had come a long way since _Voyager_ had reappeared in the alpha quadrant last year.

“Doctor Pitch?” Coulson asked, crouching beside Simon. “How’s it going?”

“It would go better if the patient would stop bloody squirming,” Baz growled. He squeezed Simon’s legs together to keep him still. It was easier than slapping him, since Baz was draped over Simon, knees on either side of his waist, as he furiously worked on the slowly closing hole in Simon's chest with all of his considerable skill. 

He was also mildly worried that slapping Simon would re-open something. The blast had seared down through muscle, sinew, and bone, and Simon would be permanently disabled if Baz didn’t get him to a real medical facility within the next few days. As it was, Baz was still hoping Simon would _make_ it long enough to suffer a decrease in flexibility. Thank the gods Blad hadn’t aimed an inch or two higher - Baz would have had no chance of saving him if the blast had seared through Simon’s aorta. 

So far, he’d gotten Simon’s lungs stabilized, which meant that Simon could breathe, even if it also meant he could bloody _talk._

“I’m doing the best I can,” Simon protested. “It hurts.”

“Stop being such a baby,” Baz growled. “Jemma, do a better job of holding him down or I’ll get someone in to relieve you.”

Jemma frowned. She was crouched by Simon’s head, her hands pressing down on his shoulders. “He’s strong.”

“All muscle, no brains,” Baz grumbled, going back to work with the souped-up dermal regenerator.

“I really fucking hate you, you know that,” Simon gasped. His eyes rolled up as Jemma pressed down harder.

“I’ll give you another three minutes and then I’ll take a turn holding him down,” Coulson said to Jemma. “You’ll need a breather.”

“Thank you, sir,” she agreed.

Baz pinched two pieces of slowly repairing muscle together and held them. Simon jumped. “Ow!”

“Just knock him out or something Commander,” Baz said distractedly while he dug around in Simon’s chest cavity. He used another local anaesthetic, but knew it wasn’t going to do much good. “A wide-beam stun blast should do it.” He was only half joking.

Coulson looked thoughtful, and Simon stilled. “I’ll be good!” He looked towards the Commander. “Don’t let him shoot me, sir.”

Coulson gave him a tight smile. “I’m sure Doctor Pitch is doing all he can to get you stable, Lieutenant.”

Simon scowled. “You say that like he hasn’t tried to kill me six times already.”

Coulson looked interested, and even Jemma popped up. “Oh?”

Baz wished Simon’s pulse really _was_ steady enough to risk a stun blast. “He’s imagining things.”

“Oh, am I?” Simon challenged. “What about in our third year, eh? You pushed me out a window!”

“You tripped,” Baz told him, for the sixth hundredth time. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“A likely story,” Simon snarled. He flinched as Baz dug around some more. “Ow!”

“If you’re convinced I’m trying to kill you, then by all means, keep moving,” Baz said earnestly. 

Simon muttered something, but quieted down. 

Coulson nodded and moved away. Jemma looked up at Baz. “Did you two know each other in the Academy?” she asked.

Baz nodded distractedly as he concentrated. Simon was still bleeding from somewhere, but he couldn’t see where. “We were roommates.”

“Despite repeated requests for transfer,” Simon gasped. He was lying much more still now, his tone pained.

“Something which seems to have become a theme in our relationship,” Baz agreed, leaning over to peer worriedly into his eyes. 

Simon gasped. “I think - ”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Baz snarled as half his repairs burst and blood starting leaking everywhere again. “Commander!”

Coulson quickly ran back to Simon’s side. With Jemma’s help they got a transfusion line set-up and plugged into Simon’s veins. Baz was the only O-negative in the group, so he thrust the second needle into his arm while dialing up the controls to set the transfusion rate. 

“Here, here, and here,” he instructed, one eye on the numbers as he directed Jemma, who was now wielding the dermal regenerator. He’d had no choice but to widen the beam, sacrificing finesse to get the bleeding under control. “And there - good, lock it down.”

She nodded and did so, switching modes to stitch the large muscle fibers together instead of the more delicate arteries. Baz could only hope the added pressure kept the entire fabric in line. 

“I’ll need pressure on the wound as soon as we’re finished here, to make sure it binds properly,” Baz told Coulson before he stuck a hypospray in his mouth to hold it while he finished programming the transfusion machine. He hit the button and the machine started, pumping blood from Baz’s body though the sterilization unit and into Simon’s arm. Baz leaned over and pressed the hypo against Simon’s neck and, that done, took the regenerator back from Jemma and switched modes again, this time directing the beam over Simon’s chest to help skin grow rapidly over the surgical site. 

“Ready...” he said, looking to Jemma, poised on one side, and Coulson, ready on the other. He finished the last section of skin. “Go!”

He tore his hands away just as Jemma and Coulson pushed forward, swaths of pressure-cloth from Baz’s bag held in their hands. It was a non-absorbent material with a contraction design manufactured specifically to bind wounds.

They held the cloths in place and pushed down. Simon grunted, but said nothing. Baz watched his vitals carefully. His tricorder said that Simon was still in the red zone, but the numbers were better, and his heart rate had stabilized. Baz let out a quiet sigh of relief and checked the transfusion cycle. It was still running. He himself was feeling a little lightheaded, but figured that was probably the adrenalin crash.

Not that he could stop now. He’d have to bind the pressure bandage so Coulson could step away and get back to saving all their asses. Realistically, getting back to the ship was the only way Simon was going to live.

“So what’s the real story?” Jemma asked. She was still holding the bandage down. Baz held up a finger and counted down, and then activated the self-pressure feature and waved her and Coulson back. They lifted their hands and everyone took a breath in - Simon’s pulse kept beating, his vitals remained stable, and the three of them exhaled together.

Coulson nodded to Baz and then stepped away, presumably to go check the cavern and make sure they were still secure.

Jemma reached for her own medical tricorder and held it, monitoring Simon’s vitals. “Come on, tell me. What’s the truth between the two of you?”

Baz rubbed a hand over his face, made a face when he realized his hands were far from clean, and sat back. He focused on the colour slowly coming back into Simon’s cheeks. Simon had passed out at some point, which was probably the best thing that could have happened to him. 

Jemma was still waiting. Baz looked up and met her eyes. “The truth?” The truth was that Simon and Baz’s relationship had become so complicated, so convoluted, that not even _he_ could navigate its history most of the time.

The basics, however, were easy to distill. “The truth is that Simon Snow is an unmitigated _ass_.”

“I heard that,” Simon muttered, apparently not so quite unconscious after all.

“Good,” Baz said angrily. He closed his eyes, letting them rest for a moment. “Good.”

 

*

 

“People, tell me you have something for me,” Natasha growled, stepping back onto the bridge after her conversation with Fury. The Admiral had been visibly impressed that they’d managed to get themselves in so much trouble on their maiden voyage as a new crew.

“I think so,” Dresden said, looking up from the Executive’s console. She and McKay were monitoring Clint on the holodeck as he ran simulations with the new miniaturized pattern enhancers. “The prototype flies smooth.”

Natasha glanced at Cage, still at her station. She never looked up. 

“Good,” Natasha said, looking back to the scientists. “It’ll work then?”

McKay nodded distractedly. “It should. Of course, the beam stabilization function is _supposed_ to initialize properly, but you never know until you test in the field.”

“Mm, field test,” Dresden said, clapping her hands together. “An engineer’s wet dream.”

McKay snorted. “Not.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. This time Cage looked up, glancing over and meeting Natasha’s gaze with a subtle eye roll that seemed to say, _Scientists._

Natasha had to agree. She smiled at Cage before glancing back to the team. “Are we ready then?”

Dresden nodded, more seriously now. “I think so.” She tapped her comm badge. “Clint? You ready?”

_“I was born ready.”_ Clint’s voice was slightly tinny over the comm line.

Natasha didn’t want to waste any more time. “We have ten minutes until we hit the one hour deadline,” she told everyone. “Let’s get Barton down to the planet so he can get our people home.”

Everyone nodded, and Dresden tapped at the Executive’s console. “Clint, I’m going to re-route transporter control to my station. Get to the transporter pad and sound your comm when you’re ready. We’ll go then.”

_“Acknowledged.”_

“All right people,” Natasha said. “It’s go time.”

 

*

 

Clint liked to pretend that he was more than a merc for hire. It’d never been easier than the first time he’d arrived on Balor III, when he’d learned that the job he’d been offered had been different than advertised, and instead of killing a local drug lord he’d been asked to assassinate a politician who’d been trying to counter the planet’s deep and pervasive problem with xenophobia.

Clint had said thanks-but-no-thanks and had made off with a few priceless artifacts from their oh-so-famous museum for his trouble. He’d sold them on the black market and had donated half the profit to the politician’s political party, checking back later to see that the man had gone on to become governor of the planet.

Clint wondered if Cho had ever known he’d had a price on his head. 

At the time, Clint had felt he’d been very clever, but now he wondered if he should have just killed the leaders of the xenophobic movement when he’d had the chance. Maybe he could have prevented all of this years ago.

A noise echoed from somewhere in the cavern. Clint paused and held his breath.

A beat. Two. Nothing. Slowly, he released the air he’d caught in his chest and crept forward again, fingers tense on the string of his bow.

The limestone rock of the caverns provided good sound dampening, but the advantage went both ways - it’d be easy to miss a patrol walking ten steps in front of him. Clint kept every sense strained for the slightest variation. Used to compensating for his shitty hearing, he wore short sleeves so he could detect the movement of air by the hair on his arms.

For this mission, he’d specifically increased the capacity of his hearing aids. It would give him a headache for a couple of hours, but it would worth it to bring the team home. To bring Coulson home.

If he failed…

No. Clint banished his worries to the back of his mind, and snuck forward again. He paused twice more, avoiding what he thought were patrols, getting more and more lost in the twisting corridors. Predictably, the tunnels on the map Cho had given them had been expanded by the revolutionaries. Finally, though, he heard voices. “Doctor, that’s enough. We don’t want you getting too weak yourself.”

Clint sighed in relief. He’d finally found the missing Away Team.

“I’m fine, Commander,” came Pitch’s peevish reply. “Simon is stable for now regardless. I’ll disconnect the transfusion.”

“Good,” Coulson said. Clint crept forward and then leaned around the corner, spying two guards in front of a small corridor, and beyond it, a large cavern. From here he could see Coulson crouching with his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “We still need you to be able to walk out of here when we escape.”

Clint figured that was as good a line as ever. He picked his targets, readied his arrows, and shot three times in quick succession. The adhesive-lined pattern enhancers sped forwards, past the guards, through the corridor, and into the fabric of the crew’s uniforms. Jemma, Baz, and Coulson started backwards as the impact rocked them. 

The guards were blinking, just beginning to wonder if they’d seen what they thought they’d seen. Clint only paused long enough to make sure the arrowheads were blinking a familiar, Federation blue. “ _Shield,_ ” he said into his communicator, fingers reaching down and grasping two new arrows by feel alone, “energize!”

Coulson’s expression narrowed. He glanced down at his jacket where the pattern enhancer had lodged, and then over at his crewmates. “No,” he said suddenly, shrugging out of his jacket just as the transporter beam initialized. Before Clint could stop him, he threw the jacket at Simon. The three crew members looked surprised as the shimmering circle of energy engulfed them and beamed them away.

“Idiot,” Clint snarled, nocking the new arrows and firing. He struck the guards, but Natasha had insisted on non-fatal shots, so despite the solid hit, one of them levered herself upright again. “Those were designed to be cast in a triangle. They would have beamed all of you up together!”

“And what about you?” Coulson argued as he darted forward. He was without his jacket now, his forearms bare as he clenched his right hand into a fist and smashed it into the guard’s face. She toppled backwards, unconscious, Clint’s arrow still sticking out of her shoulder.

“I would have been fine,” Clint snapped. He held up his extra, fourth, pattern enhancer. “See?”

“Oh,” Coulson said, looking embarrassed for once. “I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t trust me, you mean,” Clint said. Anger made the words more clipped than he’d intended. He turned around and shot another guard as they careered around a corner. The arrow went through the man’s knee, and he dropped.

Clint was done being careful. 

“I’m sorry,” Coulson said, sounding as though he’d rather chew glass. “I was worried about you. I should have realized that the Captain wouldn’t have sent you in without a plan.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m perfectly able to come up with a plan all by myself,” Clint snipped. 

A fourth guard came around the corner. Coulson darted forward before Clint could move, dodging the guard’s first, clumsy, attack, and then striking out with his left leg. He caught the woman in the stomach and she doubled over. He followed up with a quick hit against the side of her head. She crumbled, and he stood there, catching his breath, shaking his hand out like he’d hurt it. “I know that,” Coulson told him, still managing to sound like the injured party. “I chased you unsuccessfully for two years, remember?”

“Not that unsuccessfully,” Clint had to admit. Maybe it _had_ been stupid to think Coulson could ever trust him ; there was too much history between them. “You almost caught me on Andur XIII.”

“Seriously?” Coulson asked, looking up surprised. “I thought you’d gotten away clean.”

“I did,” Clint said, crossing the room to the first two guards he’d shot. Both were alive, but unconscious. “But you were maybe three seconds behind me, at most four. It was close.”

“Damn.” Coulson knocked out the other guard, still groaning with Clint’s arrow in his knee, and then looked up. A scuffle could be heard, getting closer. “Uh-oh.”

“Yeah,” Clint said. He tapped his comm. “ _Shield?_ How possible would it be for you to transport Coulson and me together using the single remaining pattern enhancer?”

_“What did you do?”_ Harry demanded. _“Did you break my new tech, Barton?”_

“Hey, this time it wasn’t me,” Clint protested. “Blame Coulson.”

Coulson rolled his eyes, but reached down and pulled Clint’s third arrow free while Harry thought through the problem. He handed it to Clint.

_“Transporting two is possible,”_ Harry said after a moment, _“but it’ll be risky. You’ll have to be standing very close together.”_

“How close?” Clint asked, even though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

_“_ Very close,” Harry confirmed. _“Like, think about having sex but don’t actually, for the sake of all our eyes, have it.”_

Clint willed the blush from his cheeks, looking away from Coulson to check his arrows for damage. They seemed okay. “Uh…”

Coulson huffed out a breath. “Oh, honestly,” he said, and stepped forward into Clint’s space. “This is my fault, not yours.” He hooked his arm around Clint’s neck and slid his foot between Clint’s legs. Their torsos came together and their groins brushed. Clint sucked in a sharp breath.

“Don’t get any funny ideas,” Coulson said, his mouth shockingly close to Clint’s ear.

“I’d never dream of it,” Clint managed, his own arms coming up as if by memory to pull Coulson closer. Coulson's skin felt warm, and his eyes were very, very blue. “ _Shield,_ ” he said, ignoring the way his voice caught on the word. “Any time.”

_“Give me a minute,”_ Harry answered. She sounded distracted. _“This is harder than it sounds.”_

The sounds of a scuffle were coming closer. Suddenly a trio of people burst around the corner, one of them Blad, his expression pinched.

“There they are!” he shouted, the moment he caught sight of Clint and Coulson. “Kill them!” 

Clint tensed. Coulson did also. “Now, _Shield,_ ” he said, angling his voice into Clint’s comm link.

_“I’ve almost got it,”_ Harry replied. _I’ve almost - ”_

Blad lifted his blaster. Around him, the other two revolutionaries did the same.

“Harry!” Clint shouted.

_“Got it! I’ve got it!”_ Harry said. Clint could hear her grinning. _“They don’t call me ‘Wizard’ for nothing.”_

“Energize now!” Clint shouted. Blad was already firing.

_“On it,”_ Harry promised. Blad’s blast hit the transporter beam that had suddenly materialized around them, and bounced off. Clint grinned, threw Blad a wink, and then the world dissolved into static.

A moment later it reformed again, and he blinked to find himself standing on the _Shield_ ’s transporter pad.

Harry was waiting for them, standing behind the console, her short hair even more ruffled than usual. “Yes!” she shouted, the moment they appeared. She pumped her fist into the air. “Told you!”

“Yeah,” Clint said, only slightly shakily. “You’re the best.” That had been _way_ too close.

“Absolutely,” Harry agreed.

“Uh, Barton,” Coulson said, his head still tucked under Clint’s arm. Clint realized he’d turned and braced them down on Balor III, trying to shield Coulson from the blast. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

Clint startled. “Yeah, sorry.” He let Coulson go so suddenly, they both stumbled. He reached out a hand, and Coulson took it, and they caught their balance together. 

“Whew,” Harry exhaled, sounding relieved. “That was close. Your patterns mingled slightly for a moment. For a second there I thought you might reappear fused together.”

Clint and Coulson shared a look of horror before springing apart. “Is that possible?” Clint asked.

Harry shrugged. “Stranger things have been known to happen.” 

“Yes, well,” Phil said, wiping his hands on his uniform. He was looking at the ground and then at Harry, eyes darting only quickly to Clint’s and then away. “Thank you for the thrilling rescue, Barton.”

“Any time,” Clint told him, clearing his throat, also avoiding his eye.

Harry’s console beeped. “Oh - Commander Coulson? The captain is waiting for you.”

Coulson nodded briskly. “Yes, of course. Barton,” he said to Clint’s general vicinity, and then turned to Harry. “Wizard.”

She laughed, and together she and Clint watched him go. When the doors had whispered shut behind him, Harry turned to Clint with an arched brow.

Clint held up a finger. “Not a word,” he threatened. 

She mimed zipping her lips shut. “Mmgh.”

Clint rolled his eyes, stepping towards her off the transporter platform. “How’s Snow doing?”

Harry’s expression tightened. “I’m not sure. I think he’s going to be okay, but Baz was cussing up a storm while I got things reconfigured enough to beam them directly to Medical.”

“Yeah, he seems the type,” Clint agreed. He cocked a head. “What’s the story between him and Snow, anyway?”

Harry shook her head. “Damned if I know. Want to go check on him together?”

“Absolutely,” Clint said. 

Locking the transporter console behind her, Harry turned and followed Clint out of the room. She brushed their shoulders together. “You know, maybe getting mingled together wouldn’t be so awful. Commander Coulson _is_ pretty cute.”

“I will hurt you,” Clint threatened.

Harry laughed. “No,” she said, “you won’t.”

“No,” Clint admitted, “I won’t, but I’d think about it.”

Harry grinned. “I’ll take that risk.”

“I thought you might,” Clint grumbled. He shook his head. “Come on, this way.”

 

*

 

“I say we blow this popsicle stand and go home,” McKay growled, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. He looked over at the empty seat next to him, and nodded. “Radek agrees.”

Sheppard rolled his eyes, tilting his chair back as well. “Oh, well, if _Radek_ agrees,” he said. It sounded more teasing than mean, though.

McKay obviously thought so as well. “Hey,” he said, stabbing a finger in Sheppard’s direction and smiling, “my imaginary friend has more of a say in this than you, why are you here anyway?”

“Moral support,” Sheppard deadpanned. “Also, these magic fingers make the ship _fly_.” He raised his hands and mimed dancing them across a keyboard.

Natasha shook her head and wondered how anyone could ever imagine Sheppard might be part Vulcan. “People,” she said, calling the conference room to order, “the _U.S.S. Pasteur_ will be here shortly, along with the _U.S.S. Bird in Flight,_ which has been tasked with protecting the _Pasteur_. However, several _yǐncáng_ bombs have been set off on Balor III, and there are likely more present. Our sensors are more sophisticated than either the _Pasteur_ or the _Bird in Flight_ , thanks to Doctor McKay and Ensign - ” She checked her padd. “ - I believe it’s ‘Fitz.’” 

McKay nodded reluctantly. “That’s true. The _yǐncáng_ technology is old, but it’s solid. We can pierce through the bombs’ interference better than anyone else.”

Natasha nodded. “For that reason, I believe we should help identify tunnels and remove bombs. I won’t, however, force anyone to beam down to the surface who isn’t prepared to do so.”

McKay scowled. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Natasha smiled. “I didn’t think you would.” She turned to Sheppard. “Lieutenant?”

He nodded seriously. “Of course, Captain.”

“Wait, what?” McKay said, sitting up suddenly. “You’re sending him? What about the whole - ” He flapped a hand. “ - flying the ship, thing?”

“We’re currently in orbit,” Natasha said dryly. “I think we can survive without Lieutenant Sheppard’s expertise for a few hours.”

McKay scowled. “Well, then, in that case I’m going with him. There’s no use giving him a tricorder and setting him loose with it, he’s a moron, and tracking and disabling a _yǐncáng_ bomb requires finesse. He’d probably just blow himself up.” 

Natasha smiled. “Why, Doctor McKay, thank you. Your help would be appreciated.” Sheppard met her eye and grinned, and Natasha went on. “Discuss this with your department, please. I’d like another five Science teams with Security to support them. Chief?” she asked, turning to look at Cage.

Danielle nodded. “According to Cho, Blad’s operation was a small one, and Cho thinks Mr Barton’s infiltration efforts should have gotten most of the revolutionaries, but I’m not inclined to believe that, even if Cho does.”

Natasha nodded. “I agree. I’m not inclined to believe Governor Cho at all.”

Clint leaned forward. “He might not even be aware, but there’s probably several groups of silent supporters on the surface who believe in the revolutionaries’ cause, if not their violent means. The xenophobia on this planet runs deep.”

Natasha nodded. “Five teams of five, then - three Security officers, one Science officer, and a member of the local Community Council. Cho tells me this was the request he wanted to put into Starfleet initially - he didn’t need medical help so much as he needed a stronger police force he knew wouldn’t side with the revolutionaries.”

Clint made a face. “What _does_ the Prime Directive say about this?”

Coulson shook his head. “The Prime Directive prevents Starfleet from interfering with developing cultures and primitive life forms - the citizens of Balor III don’t apply.”

Clint shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Coulson said, only a slight curve at the corner of his lips giving him away. “I’m also going to volunteer to lead one of the Away Teams, and I’d appreciate a few moments to check the Museum of Colonization History while I’m on the surface.” He looked at Natasha. “I have a feeling some of their more valuable items are cleverly replicated fakes.”

Clint widened his eyes. “Who would do such a terrible thing?”

Natasha smiled. She knew Coulson would never be able to prove anything, and going by the sigh in his voice, he knew it, too. Still, Clint would know that Coulson knew that he knew, and she supposed that passed for flirting between them.

She wished them luck at it.

“Very good, Commander,” she said briskly. “If no one has anything to add?” She glanced around the table. Everyone shook their heads. “Very well. We have a job, let’s do it, and please - nobody get shot this time.”

That sobered everyone up. Sheppard spoke for the group. “How _is_ Simon?”

“I’m going to go check on him now,” Natasha promised. “Contact me before you beam down to the surface.”

Sheppard nodded, and everyone stepped back from the table except for Rodney, who hung back.

“You promise, Captain? You’ll let us know?” He scowled. “Radek’s worried.”

Natasha laid a hand on his arm. For the first time, she accepted the title of ‘captain’ without the urge to turn around and look for Block. “I will, Rodney. I promise.”

 

*

 

“He’s sleeping,” Baz told her, suddenly appearing at her shoulder while Natasha stared down at Lieutenant Snow. “It’s the best thing for him now, so leave him to it, please.”

Natasha nodded, not moving from where she stood at the head of the operating unit. It was strange to see Simon resting peacefully in the usually empty surgical suite - it made Medical look crowded. “How is he?”

Baz looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes, made even more prominent by the contrast to his pale skin. She doubted he’d slept at all since returning from the surface. “It was touch and go down there for a while, but he’s fine now. I’ve managed to repair most of the damage the blast itself did, and now half the problem will be the physiotherapy he’ll need to stretch the tissue we hastily stitched together.” He shrugged. “I think I’ll blame Jemma for that.”

Natasha chuckled. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

“I’m sure she will,” Baz agreed. “Simon will still complain, though. It’s in his nature.”

Natasha shrugged. “I’m not so certain. I don’t know him well, but a lot of people have been talking about him. He’s well liked.” She smiled. “I think the only one he’s difficult towards is you.”

Baz’s scowled. “Probably, the contrary bastard.” He sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t say the same - I’m an ass to almost everyone.”

“Well,” Natasha said with a smile, “you’re a good doctor. I’m sure even Simon would agree that’s more important now.”

Baz grimaced. “You’d think so, but he’s going to bitch and moan about how I almost killed him again.” He snorted. “Like medicine’s ever perfect.”

Natasha blinked, cocking her head as she peered at Baz. “Is that so? But you told me Captain Block’s autopsy results were perfect.”

Baz stilled. He looked away from Simon to Natasha, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “Um…”

Natasha held his gaze. “Doctor,” she said calmly, “I’ve known you were withholding information since I read that report. Now I think I need to know what it is you didn’t want to tell me.”

Baz licked his bottom lip. It seemed a nervous gesture. “I don’t know what you're talking about.”

“Baz,” Natasha said. “Tell me.”

He met her eyes, held them, and then sighed. “Okay,” he said finally. Stepping backwards, he left Simon’s side and walked over to the wall unit, turning it on and then fiddling with the display until he’d pulled up Block’s autopsy report.

“Here it is,” Baz said, gesturing to the screen. “I didn’t lie. You see here? This is the genetic sequence information I retrieved from the circle of ash on Starbase G-6, and _this,_ \- ” He pointed to another, similarly spinning double-helix on the opposite side of the screen. “ - is the genetic sequence retrieved from Captain Block’s most recent medical appointment.” He hit a button, and the two helices merged together, overlapping perfectly. “They’re identical.”

Natasha watched the screen, sensing there was a ‘but’ coming. “And that means?”

“And that means something is wrong with my equipment,” Baz told her, “because it’s impossible. The disruptor blast should have fried at least half of the genetic information. The captain was _vaporized._ That by definition means that he was destroyed on the most basic level.” He took a deep breath. “So I ran the test again, and again, and _again._ ” He shook his head. “I got the same result every time.”

Natasha nodded slowly. “So what does this mean?”

Baz pressed his lips together. “I don’t know.”

He was a quiet, staring up at the display unit. Natasha watched him for a moment, and then came to a conclusion. “There’s something else you’re not telling me.”

Baz flushed. “This is more of a… a personal observation,” he confessed, glancing over to her, and then away. “I wouldn’t want it to go on record as unusual, it’s just that - well, Block came to me about a week before we’d finished patrol duty. He said he was late for his five year physical.”

Natasha blinked. “Was he?”

“Absolutely,” Baz confirmed, “by about six months, but that isn’t unusual. It’s one of the things we always joked about back in medical school - the five year physical is an intensive, full-system exam that not only goes into incredible personal detail, but also requires logging a new, updated version of a person’s complete genetic code. No one ever just ‘shows up’ for them. We have to hound and badger most personnel to do theirs, which is why Starfleet restricts it to every five years, we’re all sure.”

Natasha nodded. She’d always been on time for hers, but acknowledged that might not be the norm. “So Block has never volunteered before.”

Baz shook his head. “Never in his career. I asked him about it. He joked that he was getting ready for retirement, that he was going to spend the rest of his life practicing archeology at some dig site, or something, and that we might as well know every inch of him before he went.”

Natasha frowned. “Was archeology an interest of his?”

Baz shrugged. “He loved all old Earth stuff - cities, sailing ships, engineering feats. He had this painting on his wall of the Great Bridge of London - I saw the Bridge in person once, as a child. It was magnificent.”

Natasha nodded. “It is,” she said. She’d seen it, too. “The painting is still in the ready room. I haven’t taken it down yet.”

“Right well, what I meant was that Starfleet requires an updated genetic code because we all suffer small mutations all the time. Cosmic radiation, exposure to alien life forms, even just _living_ \- there’s always a process of mutation, a risk of cancer. We check the genetic code, analyze it, and flag any potential problems.” He looked back to the screen. “So Block’s genetic code was a perfect match for the ash ring found on Starbase G-6, which is fine. That’s what it _should_ be, discounting vaporization, but...”

Natasha cocked her head. “But the timing is suspicious,” she agreed. “Plus, we can’t actually discount the effect vaporization should have had on the samples. What do you think is going on?” 

Baz met her eyes. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “But I don’t like it.”

Natasha nodded, looking back to the screen. “Me neither,” she said. She took a deep breath in, held it, and then let it go. “Me neither.”

 

~ The End of Episode Two


End file.
